


blood and saltwater

by Em11134



Category: Suburra - La Serie | Suburra: Blood on Rome (TV)
Genre: F/F, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Mostly Angelica character study, No Beta, Pining, Spoilers for entire series, jumping into the tiniest fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:19:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27804439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Em11134/pseuds/Em11134
Summary: Angelica, in the after.
Relationships: Nadia & Angelica, Nadia Gravone/Angelica Sale, angelica/spadino (past), nadia/Aureliano (past)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 11





	1. midnight souls still remain

**Author's Note:**

> Listened to a lot of Mina & Gazebo Penguins while writing this. Make of that what you will.

Angelica keeps a light hand against Nadia’s tight braids, breathing in salt air and the incongruous scent of rose water. She holds her, but cannot look her in the eye, because her own grief and panic feels like betrayal. 

She thinks, _My father is dead. Her father is dead. Her lover is dead. My husband’s family has disowned him. My husband has fled. My womb is empty._

She cries for her own losses, certainly. And yet, even now, she is jealous of the shape of Nadia’s grief. She feels every awful shudder of her old rival’s body against her ribs, and she envies her, because Aureliano loved her, and everyone knew it.

Angelica watches the waves and resents them for their gentleness. She feels Flavio’s eyes at her back and resents him for his gentleness. He backed the Adami’s until the end, and he will care for Nadia. _But what does he owe me, Sale, Anacleti?_ she wonders.

She rests her head on Nadia’s until she quiets. Nadia tries (fails) to retrieve her pokerface, that cold hard expression that Angelica had longed to crack from the start.

She says, “Fuck this. And men. And him. Fuck the whole fucking world,” clutching Angelica’s hand.

“Where to, Angelica?” asks Flavio as they settle into the backseat of the van.

“My father’s.”

And so he drops her off at the gate of her old home. Nadia squeezes her hand three times and says, “We’ll see each other later.”

For one wild moment, Angelica wants to scream. Every cell in her body strains with “don’t leave.” But she has a little pride left, and she doesn’t want to drain Nadia with her own pain. And so she only nods, watching that car drive away until it is only a precious speck.

Like a dog Manfredi used for bait, Angelica slinks into her father’s house. The clan doesn’t pay her too much attention at first, fogged by the cloud of grief and fear: grief for her father and fear that the family will lose power. Estranged from her husband’s family and childless, besides, she is useless to them.

Angelica realizes, for the first time, that there is nothing noble in this trade. _They would not have minded if I died_ , she thinks, _as long as I had brought the next generation of capos into the world._

She wonders if they ever thought of her as more than a gift between heads of state. 

She wonders if she ever thought of them as more than her court and cannon fodder.

Angelica ignores the whispers and keening as much as possible. Instead, she spends days walking the straight line between the kitchen, the bathroom, and her childhood bed. She eats dry toast and jam like a sick little girl, choking on hard crumbs. She takes long showers, hot enough to sting, running her hands through her hair to watch it web around her fingers. Under the pink bed covers, she squeezes her eyes shut until she sees colors. She tries to forget all those nights she dreamed.

White weddings. Handsome princes. 

Eventually, her ghostwalks attract notice. Lorenzo is the first to catch her at the door, asking how she is and then asking what she knows of Spadino’s whereabouts. It’s through him that she learns of her fathers double cross. Her family blames Spadino for the shootout, and, to a lesser extent, for the loss of her baby ( _Would they have felt differently_ , she wonders, _if I carried a Cesare_?). She realizes that he sees some use for her yet, but she is too tired to worry what she’s worth to him.

Lorenzo offers to retrieve her things from the Anacleti house.

“It’s the least they owe,” he insists. She hears in his voice the dogs of war. 

She tries to keep authority in her own voice when she gives him the list: black leather purse, black leather boots, black wool coat. She doesn’t want the other clothes, because without Alberto (ROYALTY jacket, gold laurel crown), without her father (steady eyes, steady hand on her shoulder, “You will be a good wife, my little princess”) she feels like the “garish Sinti trash“ strangers have called her. She thinks of Nadia, reaching out to touch those extravagant earrings, puts her fist on her chest, and breathes in.

Instead of clothes, she asks Lorenzo for the diamonds and the gold, the rubies in her mother’s filigree jewelry box. She tells him to pack the embroidered silk and lace christening gown, and her voice doesn’t shake. 

She tells him to remember the gold and mother-of-pearl hand mirror and the vendetta knife, those gifts from Spadino that she can’t bear to abandon. She remembers admiring the red roses on the knife handle, running careful fingers along the edge. The blade was engraved with the words “Death to Enemies.” Her husband monologued about the vicious, strong old Corsicans, and he was so cocky when he said they could be vicious and strong, too.

 _Maybe partnership is worth more than love_. Spadino respected her, truly, she knows. _Even more than Aureliano did Nadia._ After all, Adami used to chide Spadino for being so loose-lipped with his woman.

Then she presses her fingertips between her eyebrows, ashamed of her pettiness and her pathetic loneliness. Whether it was love or partnership, it wasn’t enough to make her husband stay.

By the time Lorenzo returns, dropping bags at her doorstep before rushing off to gossip, she has pocketed all the loose cash she can find in the house. She feels like she’s robbing the girl she used to be.

Putting on her coat, she calls a cab, refusing anyone’s help, though she worries some Sale cousin will follow her anyway. _How long has it been,_ she wonders, _since I have gone anywhere alone, without a guard?_ ”


	2. graveyard girl

She wonders, _What is freedom?_ It isn’t power, that’s for sure.

At the hotel, she checks in as Angelica Anacleti. It stings. She considers what name she would pick, if she had had the choice. Miele, perhaps. To be sweet instead of salt.

The hotel is old-fashioned and pretty. It is nothing like her home. The French blue carpets have ivory borders and pink roses at the center and the corners. The chandelier crystals hang from art nouveau metal like falling petals. There are gold striped curtains tied with heavy gold tassels. She thinks of her one and only dinner date, giggling while Spadino mocked the stuffy maitre d, and is brusque with the pretty receptionist.

Her room is all sage and cream, with botanical prints hung on the walls. She is transfixed for a moment by the images of spliced hellebore and scattered geranium petals. Tossing her phone on the nightstand, she plops face down on the pillow, breathes in its scent of green tea and white musk, and cries. 

Angelica keeps her phone off. She keeps the curtains closed. She sees no one-except for the waiter delivering room service; although he is her own age, he is still a boy to her. Every day begins with cappuccino and chocolate pastry. She eats soft cheese and flaky bread, adds tuna to her spaghetti, and tries carne cruda for the first time. She maintains a steady wine buzz from lunch until bedtime. She even orders cigarettes, though she can only bear to smoke half of one. It’s too bitter without Nadia.

There is not much to do besides weep and pray, and she does plenty of both. At first, even TV is painful. She cannot bear the news station, because the camera pans over Vatican City while they countdown to the Jubilee. She cannot bear romances or thrillers or heists. She cannot bear cartoons. So she watches soccer, which she never liked. Now, though, it is mind-numbing in the best way. She likes the way the fans react to every play as though it’s brand new. She likes the announcers’ fast-talking enthusiasm for something so trivial-a battle with barely any bloodshed. The players’ strong calves awaken something inside of her she thought was gone.

On the seventh day, she puts on a long black dress and braids her hair in a simple rope down her back. She lines her eyes in black and hangs a golden crucifix around her neck. She leaves her hotel room. 

At first, she’s tense and watchful; it wouldn’t surprise her to be stalked by some of the families’ goons. But the elevator, the lobby, and the streets are free of familiar faces. More relaxed with every step, she strides over cobblestones to the ruins. She takes a seat near Torre Argentina, her reckless eyes fixed on the rich blue sky. She daydreams about Caesar bleeding out, and a tuxedo cat slinks around her ankle. 

“Where do you live, little friend?” she asks. “Are you alone like me?” Purring, he rolls on his back, letting her rub his belly like a puppy. “You’re a strange one,” she laughs. 

He scampers off at the sound of approaching footsteps. Angelica looks up to see an elegant woman of indeterminate age. Her blonde bob is in artful waves, and her sky blue dress looks like a 60s movie star’s. Before she even realizes what she’s doing, Angelica stands and pretends to catch her heel between the cobblestones, remembering too late that the woman may assume she’s a pickpocket. But the woman only touches her arm and asks if she’s hurt with maternal concern.

Angelica widens her eyes and stutters a little when she says “Oh, I’m perfectly fine. Forgive my clumsiness. Thank you so much!” She’s trying to pass for the sort of girl who dreams of white dresses and handsome princes.

Then, straightening, Angelica says, “I adore your dress.” In no time at all, the stranger is talking about the importance of tailors. Angelica smiles and nods, thinking, _Perhaps she is lonely, too_. She recommends a boutique a few blocks away that sells “all the loveliest pieces.” When they separate at the next intersection, Angelica almost feels like the frivolous girl she is pretending to be.

The breeze is gentle as she finds her way to the dress shop. The air smells so strongly of honeysuckle that, for a moment, she can’t recall the smell of saltwater. Then the glass door opens and the shop-girl gives her an unimpressed once-over. Silently berating herself for leaving the expensive jewelry in the hotel lockbox, Angelica tries her best to look imperious while she surveys the mannequins. She must not succeed, because when the shop-girl notices her eye on a maxi dress, she scoffs.

“That one,” she says, “is not for you. A waste of those legs, and the bodice will make you look like a boy.” She leads Angelica to an eggplant skirt with a subtle metal detail on the hem. Angelica reaches out to touch the fabric without thinking, then jolts back, shaking her head. 

“No. I would only like to see things in black, please.” 

“Are you certain? This color would flatter you better.” 

“Thank you, but no.”.

The shop-girl raises a manicured brow, then asks, “Funeral?”

“Widow,” Angelica says, without thinking.

The shop-girl gasps, and for a moment Angelica thinks that she has caught the lie. 

“So young,” she says, and Angelica remembers that she is. “I’m sorry for your loss. You probably get that a lot.” The words are kind, but the tone is as sharp as it’s been since she walked through the door. Somehow, Angelica finds it more comforting than softness would be.

Later, wearing black lace, the underworld version of the dress she wore to that fateful, final party, Angelica walks from the hotel to a wine bar. She’s not quite sure what she is looking for. She eyes the men smoking outside and the couples through the front window but sees no one she knows. 

It’s crowded inside. Shoulders back, chin up, she orders a glass of red and tries to look like someone who does not cry.

A blonde at the corner seat catches her notice. White shirt, white teeth, deep dimples. Blue eyes that pause at her lips, breasts, and legs. When he stands and prowls over, she clutches the bar stool in anticipation. 

She’s seen that look before. Cat callers on the street. Schoolboys she would never be permitted to kiss. The occasional Sale, when her father’s head was turned. The Anacleti cousin who dropped club promo flyers at her feet so she’d be sure to see the face of her husband’s DJ sidepiece. (She’ll never regret stabbing him.) That pig Manfredi, may he burn in hell. She had always wanted to see it in the eyes of someone she actually liked. She didn’t realize how desperate she was for that sort of attention, having convinced herself that she didn’t mind anymore that Spadino didn’t want her. She steadfastly refuses to consider who else’s attention she may be longing for.

The stranger introduces himself, and his Italian is textbook. She wonders, _Can he tell what I am by my accent?_ If so, he doesn’t seem at all put off. If anything, he seems intrigued, leaning closer to hear her speak. He’s so close that she can smell his cologne, something rich with leather and vetiver, and see a shaving nick by his ear. 

He seems to like her, even though she doesn’t say much about herself. He laughs at her quiet jokes and her sardonic observations about the people at the bar. She surprises herself by laughing at his. He recounts his recent vacation in Barcelona, and the way he describes the architecture is whimsical and almost childlike. She’s never been out of the country, herself, so she asks him about his favorite places in Rome.

She is too startled to register his answer, because he runs his hand across her knuckles, touching the spot that has, until recently, been hidden by a wedding ring. She wonders if he also removed his wedding ring for the occasion, then reminds herself that not all men are pigs. 

And at the end of the night, she lets him press her into some shadows. He leans her against the wall so gently that the lace in her dress does not snag on the rough stone. He kisses her. She closes her eyes, trying to savor his square shoulders and his palm sliding carefully up her ribcage. She concentrates on pleasure as though she can make it grow through will alone. But it’s not enough, and she pushes him away with delicate but steady hands. 

The next night, she shares aperitivo with a burly brunette. They debate about the talent of the Juventus coach, and his booming laugh is so genuine that she cannot help but smile in return. He kisses her exuberantly; she ought to feel excited, but she doesn’t care for him. She ignores his Basset hound stare and heads back to the hotel to sleep alone.

The night after that, she flirts with a long-haired bartender. He is a tall, wiry man wearing a t-shirt and flatteringly tight jeans, and he has a tattoo along his bicep: “flectere si nequeo superos, acheronta movebo.” _If I cannot bend the heavens above, I will move Hell._ She touches it while she kisses him, and there is a prickle of fear that almost makes it delicious. Almost, but not quite.

 _Enough is enough. I won’t get what I want this way_ , she thinks, as she steps away from his warm body.

And so she lets the fear turn from a prickle to a rash when she turns on her phone. She texts: “Can I come visit tomorrow?” 

Nadia replies immediately with the address. Angelica already knows the place-it is Aureliano’s apartment-and realizes that Nadia may simply be unable to type his name. She says nothing else, and yet somehow Angelica knows it is an enthusiastic invitation. 

In the morning, she asks the hotel receptionist where to buy flowers.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. skin of the night

Angelica takes a cab to the Adami apartment, clutching the flowerpot. She spent a solid half hour touching petals and smelling perfume before she decided on purple calla lilies. Now she worries they are too flamboyant.

When she steps out of the cab, straightening her skirt and fidgeting with the crucifix around her neck, Angelica notices that the place is deserted. There is only one car in the parking lot, and there are no roaming guards. They will be truly alone.

Taking a deep breath, she rings the doorbell. She texts for good measure. She holds her breath until Nadia opens the door, and for a long moment, the only sound is the sound of her exhale.

Nadia is dressed in men’s boxers and a white tank top that Angelica can’t help but notice is a slightly see-through. Her feet are bare, and her black nail polish is chipping. She has buzzed her hair. She looks hard and vulnerable as exposed bone, and Angelica wants to reach out and touch the scruff on her head. Her hand jerks reflexively. 

Nadia’s mouth quirks. “Are those for me?” she asks, stepping back to let Angelica pass through the door, watching as Angelica sets the flowers on a nearby table between a package of gummy bears and a disorderly pile of unopened mail. 

“They reminded me of you,” she answers without thinking, then wishes she could take it back. But Nadia doesn’t seem to judge her, only reaches out to run her index finger along the delicate, spiral petal. 

”Pretty,” she says, almost sarcastic. “Never been given flowers before. But I’m afraid they’ll die here.”

“No, no, I know how to keep them alive. I used to garden. I’ll teach you,” she insists.

“I guess you better stick around.”

Angelica swallows. “I guess I’d better.” 

She eyes the envelopes on the table, and Nadia, mistaking the source of her attention, tosses her the bag of candy. 

“So...have you been staying here?”

Nadia scoffs lightly. “Yeah, no one’s come to claim the place yet. They will, no doubt, but I’m taking the rest I can get.”

“...and you?” 

Nadia raises a brow and smiles. It’s not bitter, but not sweet, either. “No one’s come for me.” _Besides me_ , Angelica thinks.

She shrugs. “You hungry?”

Angelica follows her to the open kitchen, instinctively taking the same seat she had taken at their war meetings, not so long ago. The quiet is a Spadino-shaped hole beside her, but Nadia doesn’t seem to notice, tossing her a block of Parmesan and making a brisk motion toward the grater. 

“I never cooked much,” Angelica says, to break the silence.

“It’s not so hard. I was taking care of the boys when I was just a kid. I could fish better than they could, too, the useless bastards. It’s all about the fresh ingredients, you know?”

“I tried to learn, but...the older generation likes things their own way.” 

Nadia huffs a laugh. “Spadino said your mother-in-law was formidable.”

“A bitch, you mean,” she corrects, with a vindictive grin. With Manfredi dead and Alberto on the run, the old woman will have lost all influence. She wonders what would have happened if Adelaide had backed her younger son, then shuts the door on the thought. _It’s pointless to dream._

“At least I never have to see her again. And Manfredi’s rotting in the ground where he belongs.” 

”A toast to that!” Nadia says, her voice teasing, as the water begins to boil. She doesn’t ask any more about the Sinti clans, though Angelica figures she must know there’s nowhere for her to return to. Instead, she gestures towards a bottle of champagne at the bar, and Angelica pops it. 

It is a morbid parody of their victory party, and yet it somehow comforts her. They will never be as young and reckless again, but they survived. They are together.

And they stay together. They cook together, Nadia instructing her how to make a perfect arrabiatta and a delicious swordfish, rolling her eyes at Angelica’s clumsy knife work, laughing when Angelica tells the story of the stabbing. They drink liquor from the full bar, mixing barely-drinkable cocktails and making up names for them: “the Dancing Octopus” or “the Vulture’s Tuxedo.” 

They binge TV together, curled up beneath a blue fleece blanket. Angelica likes soaps about the Tudors or Borgias, full of sex and lavish costumes. Nadia laughs at her when she mocks the writers’ historical errors. Nadia prefers the “DIY” shows, and, though Angelica finds them tedious, she likes hearing Nadia’s asides about her repair work at the amusement park. They both like documentaries about the excavation of mummies and bog bodies. 

Nadia exercises like a soldier, weightlifting in the living room and running along the beach, somehow graceful even in the sand. Angelica begs for more cooking lessons just so she has an excuse to feed her. Still, she shrinks, becoming more and more birdlike, her slender proportions a contrast to her strong energy. Angelica, on the other hand, is filling out, her new clothes tighter, like grief has kickstarted another puberty.

Neither sleeps well. At first, Angelica insists on sleeping on the couch, but then come the nightmares. She dreams about a bloody monster between her legs, a ring that turns into an asp and bites, a man’s beefy hand over her eyes, a laurel tree struck by lightning. She wakes up, too frightened even to scream, and hears Nadia weeping. She cannot resist curling up behind her, wishing she was even bigger so that she could be a more solid weight at her back. They sleep together in Aureliano’s bed, after that.

One night, Angelica models her new wardrobe. Nadia plays a soundtrack of electronic music, low enough that they can hear the sound of the steady ocean waves in the background, while Angelica does a runway walk across the living room. When she stumbles, drunk, against the window, Nadia laughs and claps her hands.

“Look at you! You look too hot to stay cooped up.”

Nadia rifles through the closet while Angelica lounges on the couch and kicks her feet, clad in black stiletto sandals, letting her slinky black dress ride up. Once Nadia is dressed in tight jeans and a fitted black top with metal studs, they share the bathroom mirror. Angelica leans over Nadia’s shoulder, and they smudge each other’s black eyeliner to disguise their dark circles.

They scroll through Internet reviews to find nightclubs far away from family territory. In the cab, a man on the radio sings about cities as churches. Angelica grasps Nadia’s hand.

The club is unfamiliar, and the songs are new to her. But Angelica likes it. _Every crowd is the same once you’re moving in it,_ she thinks.

When Nadia disappears into the unisex restroom, Angelica sidles up to the bar, nodding with confidence at the handsome bartender and ordering a couple of vodkas. She keeps one eye at the back of the club, and stands quickly when she sees Nadia emerge and crook a finger.

“I’m a bloodhound for a dealer,” Nadia says, placing a guiding hand on Angelica’s lower back. In the stall farthest from they door, they snort bumps off one another’s hands and return to the dance floor, moving close together. The bass makes the floor vibrate, and lights flash green and gold in the dark.

It’s too loud to speak, and, though Angelica knows it would be beyond foolish, she longs to say, _It wasn’t only that you got to choose each other, that made me jealous. I wanted you to choose me._

  
  


  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The shaved head is, of course, an homage to Numero Otto, and the Midnight City to the opening of the movie. Thanks for reading!


	4. too late

The rest of the night flashes like a strobe light. On the cab ride home, Angelica bats her lashes at the driver until he turns the radio up, and Nadia rolls down the window to howl at the moon. They bring the rest of the coke back to the apartment and take enough to keep awake for two days. 

Sober Nadia is quiet and serious, but High Nadia is a motormouth, and Angelica loves it. She cherishes every story like a secret treasure.

Nadia tells her how afraid she used to be of the water. “I was convinced I would be stung by a jellyfish. Eaten by a shark. My father’s cousin forced me to learn to swim anyway. He told me that he was friends with all the creatures in the ocean, and all I had to do was say his name to make them my friends too. He was the one locked up at the tail end of that last heat wave. His cellmate bashed his head right before Christmas. A shame.”

Angelica learned to swim in the family pool. She liked the water fine, but she hated the smell of chlorine and the shrieking of the other kids as they chased one another in circles, rowdy in a way she was never permitted to be.

Then Nadia shows off stacks of sketches-a dragon, a number 8, a calla lily in Sailor Jerry style. She flips through the pages too quickly, like she’s shuffling a pack of playing cards, until Angelica holds them down with an open palm. 

“You’re brilliant. Really,” Angelica says. Her voice is soft with wonder. “I wish I had talent like that.”

“I’ll tattoo a Roman crown behind your ear. And on your back, I’ll put one of those saints you love to talk to.” 

Angelica scoffs, “Spare me a crown. No one wants to remember the widow of the defeated emperor.” 

“Not true. They’re on Wikipedia,“ Nadia smirks and shakes her head. “Do you truly think of yourself as some pitiful abandoned wife? The same woman who planned kidnappings and dodged cops? Who humiliated thieving dealers and sexist crimelords? You are tough. You have brains! Spadino knew it. Aureliano knew it. Sometimes it even scared him.”

Angelica rolls her eyes, the drugs fueling her resentment. “And what use were they? Why did we want to live the way we did, anyway?” She grits her teeth. “It was all a waste! What a waste,” Suddenly, the bitterness and misery are intolerable. She grabs the nearest bottle and shatters it against the wall.

The room is deadly quiet. Angelica covers her face with her hands, shocked by the magnitude of her own rage and afraid of how quickly her mood changed. _Am I losing my mind?_

And then Nadia bursts into laughter. “What a waste!” she says, clapping with bizarre delight. “Damn right. We were the only ones with any sense, in the end.”

Angelica can’t help but laugh with her. Her stiff jaw cracks. She thinks, _The hubris was also mine._ But, at this moment, it doesn’t hurt to remember. For once, she’s not ashamed. Instead, she pops open a beer and raises it in a sarcastic toast, “To that better way to live, then.”

By the time she’s downed the beer, she’s content again, swaying her hips to the sound of the waves. Nadia is watching her dance from a barstool, talking a mile a minute: “Did you ever play hula hoops as a kid? I fucking loved that shit,” and “Aureliano was so crazy-eyed on coke, but you just look sharp.” and “I always wanted to get a German Shepard. I should adopt one now. I’ll name him Flavio.” 

She asks, “Do you think he was a virgin? Where did he end up anyway?” and “The guy I lost it to was a three-pump chump. He dumped me for a blonde working the concession stand, can you believe it?” and “Do you ever feel like we pay for protection with pussy? Tell me that we are as badass as I want us to be.”

Angelica twirls and mimics Spadino’s trademark bow. “Badass.” 

She falls back onto the couch. “Do you know what? I should’ve had sex with Flavio. I was only ever with Alberto. And he had to be strong armed into it with all that family/duty/inheritance shit. I had this gorgeous pink lingerie, and he was picturing Aureliano the whole time.” It is freeing to be able to speak openly about her husband’s secret. He has no reputation left to protect, and she can tell her own story. Still, the vulgar words taste strange in her mouth. “I’d hate to think my husband was fantasizing about a lousy lay. Tell me the Adami was good in bed at least.” 

Nadia winks, “Oh, he got the job done. And, of course, he had the body of a god. But too rough to be Prince Charming. That’s the way of men, I suppose.”

 _Girltalk_ , Angelica marvels. Finally, she gets the slumber parties and salacious gossip she wanted for so long. _Who would have thought it would come now, and at such cost?_

“You are beautiful,” Nadia insists, sitting beside her, “and you were wasted on him. There’s still time.” She leans over and brushes Angelica’s cheekbone with the back of her hand, slow despite the stimulants rushing through her veins. “A face like this ought to be carved in marble.” 

Angelica says, suddenly shy, “You are beautiful, too,” and, silently, _I think I might love you. I’ve never known anyone like you before._

They lose their speed and their coherence with every hour that passes, eventually collapsing in bed in their underwear. Angelica is too tired to care about anything besides the coolness of the sheets and the stars.   
  


—-

They spend the next few days lounging, and Angelica declares she will stay sober forever. They wear t-shirts and fuzzy socks (Nadia has a seemingly inexhaustible supply). They pop aspirin, chug coffee-even when it makes them sicker, and watch movies they’ve seen a thousand times before. Angelica takes a bubble bath in the giant porcelain tub. 

Nadia peeks in, and, when Angelica smiles at her, sits on the toilet seat. “You were in here so long and were so quiet that I thought you had drowned.”

Angelica moves to get out of the tub, nervous that she’s overstepping, but Nadia gestures for her to stay still, gathering bubbles in her cupped hand.

“I love this bathtub,” Nadia says, blowing a groove into the hill of bubbles in her palm. Angelica stretches her leg over the water like a glamour girl in an old-time movie. “Me and Aureliano barely fit. It was nice though. You know, he could fast-draw a gun like a cowboy, but he was so slow, too-“

“Yeah, I always thought he was like a lion. Big dick energy, is that what they call it?”

Nadia snorts. “Yea. Slow, but he was so rarely peaceful. Here, we could lay together and chill and there was no one else. No world outside.”

Angelica cocks her head. “And he liked bubbles?”

“He said he liked how they looked on my skin. But I knew he loved them for himself,” she laughs. 

And she’s still laughing, but her voice is getting raspier with the memory. Angelica scrambles to think of a distraction.

“You should get a rubber duck in here. I had a bath toy that was a dinosaur when I was little.”

“And then you grew up and married a dinosaur.” 

Angelica giggles. “His hair was ridiculous, wasn’t it? He spent forever on it every morning. It’s a good thing the Anacleti’s had so many bathrooms, or we would have been fighting over the mirror.”

Nadia turns to the mirror as Angelica steps out of the bath, wrapping herself in a fluffy dark blue towel and securing it against her chest. She rubs her own shorn head a bit self-consciously and says, “You won’t have that problem here.” 

Angelica gives into the temptation to run a hand over her buzzed hair. 

“I like it.” 

Nadia fingers a dripping lock of Angelica’s hair, “I like yours, too.” She hands Angelica a bottle of her rose scented lotion and goes to put on the tea kettle.

When Angelica emerges from the bathroom in a soft black nightgown with satin trim, Nadia is sitting in front of her stack of drawings, spinning Aureliano’s ring around her finger. It looks comically large in her delicate hand.

She taps on a drawing of an angel wing, then taps the side of her head. “I’m going to tattoo it here.”

Angelica slides her hands around Nadia from behind, pressing her face against the other woman’s shoulder, still flushed from the steam. “Alright. I’ll come with you. I’ll hold your hand.”

“He saved me, you know?” she whispers. “I had no one.”

 _I had everyone,_ Angelica thinks. _And somehow no one, too._

Instead, she says, “Now, you have me.” Her voice is strong. The truth feels simple and eternal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one barely passes the Bechdel test, but it felt like Spadino/Aureliano had to be dealt with before they could move forward


	5. you appearing

Though Angelica appreciates the occasional bacchanal, she’s happiest at home with Nadia. Thanks to an excess of free time and a subscription to the cooking channel, the dinners they make are now as lavish as any they would order at a fancy restaurant. Angelica buys terra-cotta window pots and plants lemongrass, basil, mint, and thyme. 

Nadia gains back the weight she lost. Her hair almost passes for a pixie cut now; one side is buzzed in preparation for her new tattoo. They can’t go to their old haunts, so they find a seaside shop with no gang affiliation. It is a small, shadowy space that barely fits a desk, massage chair, and pair of stools. The only concessions to comfort are an old-model television and a bowl of cheap chocolate candy. 

Angelica looks around warily, thinking about hepatitis and tetanus until Nadia elbows her in the ribs. The proprietor, an old woman in blue eyeshadow and ripped jeans, motions them inside. Nadia hands her the angel wing sketch, and the woman nods, guiding her into the vinyl seat and moving her head to the side none-too-gently.

“Name’s Fiorella. You want it in color?” 

“No. I want it in black.”

As soon as Fiorella lifts the razor to her scalp, Angelica grasps Nadia’s hand. With her other hand, she pulls her ruffled black dress down to cover her thighs, which stick to the hot plastic seat. At first, she is riveted by the tiny movements of the gun; she’s never been squeamish about blood, and she’s fascinated by the way the ink pools beneath fair skin. But then Nadia’s clutching her hand tighter, and the thought of Nadia in pain is enough to make her dizzy. She concentrates on the TV, instead. A _Columbo_ marathon is playing, but the volume is too low for her to understand what the detective is saying. She and Nadia make up their own plot. 

“The motive is incest! That pregnant blonde is his cousin, and her father shot him to protect their reputation.”

“No way! He found out his family ran a drug ring, and his father killed him because he wouldn’t go along.”

“Maybe it’s a serial killing. He’s trying to cleanse the town of sinners.”

The tattoo artist huffs, rolls her eyes, and declares that she’s taking a cigarette break.

As soon as she’s gone, Nadia snorts, “She reminds me of my grandma.”

“A hard woman?”

“I barely knew her. She died when I was six. But I remember that she was impatient and rough like that. To hear my father tell it, she didn’t give a damn about anybody. All she cared about were cigarettes and buraco. She was great at buraco, actually. And she was a great shot.”

“You don’t take after her, then.” Nadia raises a brow, and Angelica laughs, poking her side. “Fine, I’ll admit you’re a great shot. But you’re not hard, you know.”

“I am sometimes,” Nadia says, quietly.

“You protected him,” Angelica says, and her voice is firm. “And you protected me.” 

When Fiorella turns on the gun again, Nadia seems to fade. She’s nearly unconscious from the rush of endorphins, and her hand in Angelica’s is loose. Angelica keeps close to her anyway, admiring her long eyelashes and fighting the urge to kiss her forehead.

The tattoo artist holds up a mirror for her to see the finished work, and Nadia smiles, satisfied. Angelica smiles, too, as giddy as if the ink was on her own body.

—-

That night, Nadia tosses and turns. Angelica can’t sleep when Nadia is restless, so she stares at the ceiling, worrying that this tribute has done more harm than good. _Has it reminded her too much of her grief?_ she wonders. _Will she ever get over him? Will we always live in turmoil like this?_

Though they usually sleep deeply, there are still nights when they dream about what was taken from them. They still wake up screaming, every once in awhile. 

Thankfully, neither has heard from any family members or old associates. They keep a gun in the entryway anyway. There is a bat under the bed and an antique vendetta knife in Angelica’s purse. Nadia has been teaching Angelica to lift weights, and they plan on taking up boxing someday. “I watched Aureliano practice so many times. I must have picked up something,” Nadia insists, acting as spotter as Angelica struggles with the dumbbell.

In this house, they are safe-or at least, safer than they’ve been in a long while. Angelica likes to imagine them as music box miniatures, dancing in circles between mirrors; when the music stops, they are tucked away in black. But she knows that they were not bred to live in such sweet domesticity forever. Their darkness is full of sharps.

Nadia sighs and sits up.

“Hey,” she says, yawning, when she notices Angelica is awake beside her. “Did I keep you up? Should I crash on the couch?”

“No, I was just thinking…” Angelica yawns reflexively back. “Do you think something is wrong with us?”

“Plenty of people have insomnia-especially after they got their head inked and they can’t find a comfortable position.”

“No, I mean. The nightmares.”

“Oh god, did you have another one?” Nadia asks, suddenly alert. She moves closer.

“No, no. It’s only...I dream about what they did to me.”

“...Me too. That’s not so strange.”

“But I don’t dream about what I did.”

“That’s because your subconscious knows that you did what you had to,” Nadia says firmly. “I shot when I had to, and I’d do it again.”

Angelica knows that, to Nadia, killing is practical. But she’s skeptical that Nadia has ever known true hatred, the kind that Angelica feels in her chest and the back of her throat. Angelica’s motives have never been so pure.

She fantasizes about the moment Manfredi realized he was done for, and the pleasure she feels imagining his terror borders on the erotic. She recognizes that it is a sin. _But that’s_ _what it means to be human,_ she tells herself, praying the rosary. _A feeling that is so commonplace could not be truly wrong. We all contradict ourselves. How else could we go on?_

In this way, she and Spadino were the same. She knows he would have been as gentle to their daughter as he was to her, in the end. She loved him, her partner in literal crime, her wannabe emperor. But he was ruthless, and he luxuriated in his own ruthlessness; he was snarling and cocky, clever and theatrical. Angelica was stronger, though, and more decisive. She hated his uncertainty, his fear, and his capacity for mercy. They proved more destructive to them (to her) than any deliberate cruelty. 

_Nadia,_ she thinks, remembering that stern, beautiful face behind the barrel of a gun, _would not hesitate._

She wonders why she refers to Spadino in the past tense. She refuses to consider where he is now, or who he’s with, or what he’s learned from their mistakes. Instead, she turns towards Nadia and asks what they should do later in the day.

“We’ll fall asleep eventually. Let’s turn off our alarms and laze all afternoon.” Angelica is clutching a pillow to her chest, and Nadia puts a hand on her wrist. “We will dream of happier things.”

Angelica closes her eyes, and she starts to believe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those murder mystery plots were based on the show Riverdale. I have a soft spot for that show because inspired my first forays in writing. If you happen to decide to watch it, let me say the first season is trashy and fun.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	6. highway of endless dreams

Nadia’s tattoo has finished peeling. Angelica admires its clean lines, running her finger on the granite countertop in the shape of a wing.

“We should show it off.”

Nadia bites her croissant, squinting at her latest sketch. She flips the page to see what it’s missing. “Where do you want to go? Bar?”

“I don’t know..I figured we could go shopping. Maybe the beach. Somewhere with people.” It’s been long enough now that she is confident they are out of danger. 

“You want to make friends?” Nadia smirks as though the idea is absurd.

Airily, hoping Nadia takes it as a joke, she answers, “I don’t want you to get bored with my company.”

Cohabitation has been surprisingly easy. Angelica can’t imagine wanting to live with anyone else. But she doesn’t want to hide in Aureliano’s apartment forever. Though she’s lived there for weeks, it has yet to feel like home.

Besides, what better way to move on than to walk a new path among new people. Angelica used to sit in the park, listening to strangers complain about their straight jobs, listening to strangers plan pub trivia nights and girls’ brunch, and she pitied them. They seemed so ordinary and so boring, back then. Now she wants the peace that being ordinary often provides. 

_What is freedom? Maybe it’s holding hands in a crowded park, knowing there’s no one chasing us. Maybe it’s the opportunity to live gently._

Nadia laughs and shakes her head. “I never could get bored of you, Ange’. How about this? We’ll go shopping. I was thinking about buying a motorcycle, anyway.”

Angelica’s mouth drops. 

“We have plenty of cash left,” Nadia insists, defensive. “And tons to sell, if we find another good fence-and we will. I’m thinking of getting something used. I can fix it up myself. A new hobby. 

Since Angelica has never before bothered to consider cost before making a purchase, it’s easy to dismiss her misgivings. Besides, the beauty of Nadia’s smile is persuasive.

By noon, Nadia is driving them across town ten miles an hour above the speed limit, drumming the steering wheel to the beat on the radio. Leaning her head against the window, Angelica alternates between watching the clouds and eyeing the other drivers with suspicion.

As they approach the city center, the traffic gets worse; they end up stalled at a red light while a cargo-truck struggles at the turn. Angelica spots a woman in a black silk wrap dress identical to her own. She pokes Nadia’s sharp shoulder and asks, “Do I look like such a pretentious bitch in this dress?”

Nadia gives her an exaggerated once-over and snorts. “I didn’t want to say so before, but...yes.”

Covering her eyes with her hand, Angelica laughs. _I don’t even really like all these new clothes,_ she thinks. _I just wanted to be grown up. To be different._

At the car lot, Angelica feels even more self-conscious in her expensive outfit. Nadia, on the other hand, is in her element, talking to the salesman and mechanic like they are old friends. They speak in a language that Angelica doesn’t understand; she fidgets, silent, while Nadia inspects engines, heedless of the grease staining her loose-fitting, acid-washed jeans. Angelica doesn’t bother looking at the motorcycles, which all look the same to her. Instead, she watches the furrow between Nadia’s brow deepen in concentration. She watches Nadia rub her new tattoo. 

_Her joy is mine,_ she admits to herself, finally. Finally, _I love her._

It is a painful epiphany, especially because she realizes, as Nadia laughs with the pretty blonde mechanic, that she’s jealous. _I thought I wanted us to be in the outside world. But what if she finds someone she likes better? What if she doesn’t want me? What if she leaves?_

Hearing Nadia approach, she tries to control her shallow breathing. Nadia describes her purchase, and Angelica nods and smiles stiffly. She doesn’t say that it looks like every other black motorcycle; Nadia speaks of it as though it is a magic carpet. 

Fear and loneliness are rolling towards Angelica like the tide. She imagines Nadia riding away in a wave of dust, a choking farewell.

But then Nadia links arms with her, smiling like a girl, and says, “Imagine how fun it will be to drive along the coast together this summer.”

“This summer?” 

Nadia raises that eloquent brow. “Yes, of course. Road trips are no good in the cold.”

 _I thought you would leave by winter_ , Angelica thinks. She takes a deep breath, telling herself to be brave. If she doesn’t say it now, she may never.

“Maybe...maybe we can find a new apartment by then? This one is too big and...well...too masculine, I think.” She feels like she’s cracked her heart like a clamshell, but Nadia reacts as though she has said nothing out of the ordinary.

“You’re right,” she says, tapping her chin. “We can use something smaller. Maybe something with a garden for you, Green Thumb.”

She slides her hand from Angelica’s elbow to her hand, and pulls them to a stop before the words have even finished resounding in her ears. She eyes the surprise and relief on Angelica’s face and smiles tenderly.

”You still don’t get it, huh.”

She steps closer, and Angelica leans, confused, against the glass window of an abandoned coffee shop covered in pink graffiti. 

And Nadia kisses her. It is a real kiss, the kind that makes her press closer, the kind that is worth every minute of uncertainty. 

_Why bother with handsome princes when I could have this?_ she thinks, sighing against Nadia’s chapped lips. At her back, the sun is garish orange.

They hold hands on the way home, and Angelica finds herself giggling incredulously in the car. She would be embarrassed, except Nadia winks at her, and she knows the other woman just as excited. 

Later, they will debate what kind of house they want, what furniture to buy, what jobs to try for. They will collapse into bed to sleep and then have quiet sex in the dawn light. It will be new for both of them, but they are fast learners. The salt of her tears will taste like happiness when Nadia leans across the pillow to say, “I love you, you know? I love you.” 

But first, Nadia pulls over next to a market, laughing as Angelica steals a leopard moto jacket from the sidewalk rack. It is almost identical to the one she left at her father’s house all those months ago.

“For our bike ride,” she says, tossing her hair. She shrugs it over her black silk wrap dress, and Nadia bumps her shoulder in rebellious delight.

**Author's Note:**

> I binged the show pretty quickly and I watched it in Italian, which is my second language, so I know I’ve missed details and nuance. Forgive the lack of accuracy!


End file.
